3AM
by Eve Random
Summary: It's 3AM in New York City and Brittany is not there. Brittana


_**A/N:Spoilers up to S5 (the news that Heather won't be guesting). Just some drabble. And sue me for getting some S4 stuff wrong- I couldn't watch. So let's just call this AU. I don't usually do angst but let's see what happens. Be a brave anon and tell me not to do it again if it really smells bad. LOL  
**_

_**A/N2: thanks to the anon who pointed out that there's just no news of whether Heather will be guesting...keep hope alive**_

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Santana rolled over and stared into the semi-darkness above her. It was 3AM, but a loft apartment even far outside New York City was never really dark. The flickering yellow streetlights and the first trickle of diesel fume belching trucks bound for the Greenmarket kept the loft from staying dark for more than a fraction of a second at a time.

But Santana didn't need a clock to tell her when it was 3AM. Waking up at that time was automatic now; as effortless as her heart beating. This was the time that every morning for the last four years, she'd reached for the phone and hit Brittany's number.

Santana folded her arms behind her head and a sad smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She didn't know why she'd called Brittany at 3AM every morning, Santana was _not_ a morning person and she truly believed that immolation was a _completely_ reasonable punishment for anyone who woke her up too early. But there she was, that first time, not even hesitating. Maybe if the phone had finished the first ring before Brittany's breathy voice was in her ear she might have hung up. But there she was. She could hear the groggy smile on Brittany's lips as she said her name. She didn't say it with any question in her voice. It was just a statement, an acknowledgement, "Santana." She expected her. This was as natural as the sun rising. It was 3AM and Santana was calling Brittany. Santana could never get Brittany to explain why she wasn't surprised. When she'd asked her before the first bell later than morning, Brittany had just shrugged and smiled and pulled her closer.

The first time, the apologies had tumbled out of Santana's mouth. This is crazy. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry. Go back to sleep. I'm so sorry. But Brittany said her name again, "Santana." Santana sighed and closed her eyes. The doubts, the worries, the scars, the fear, the hate, the rage, all that dissolved instantly when Brittany said her name. She felt it wash over her and she was healed.

After that first time, probably eight times out of ten, the first words from Santana's mouth were "I want you." And they didn't hesitate or shy away from whatever they could do to satisfy that urge in all its complexity. It wasn't always sexy times. Sometimes it was a murmured disjointed story of a dream vacation where time and money and distance were limitless. Sometimes it was Santana half humming, half singing lyrics that were only written down in her head. Santana never considered herself a romantic; writing sonnets and releasing doves was never going to be her style. But to Brittany, romance was Santana saying how much she wanted to hold her, how precious she was to her, and listening to her fall back asleep. Santana could do that. She wanted to do that. She wanted nothing more in the world than to do that every day of her life.

They tried FaceTime and Skype at "their time" once Santana moved away to compensate for the fact that it wouldn't be just a few more hours before she'd see Brittany, all bouncing and blonde and joy and love. There were crazy attempts at strip shows but stripping requires a light to be on in your room at 3AM and parents and siblings and roommates find that hard to ignore.

And it wasn't really necessary. The sound of Brittany was what she craved. Even when Brittany's beautiful face was filling her computer screen, Santana still found herself closing her eyes and listening hard to pull every sound she could from the earpiece. Seeing her on the screen reminded her of the distance between them. With her eyes closed, just listening, she could pretend she was right there, in her bed. Serendipity led to the discovery that Skype had better sound quality than their normal calls and Santana found herself reeling at being able to hear even more of Brittany. She'd never admit it to anyone, but she blew a stack of bills on really good earphones so that Brittany's voice enveloped her; "Santana." She closed her eyes and every breath, every sigh, every raspy edge of her laugh, every glide of her tongue across her lips was audible. She was everywhere and Santana was in heaven. At 3AM, what she needed was Brittany near her and somehow this worked.

And yes, it was no substitute for being there physically. No substitute for holding her, feeling Brittany's skin glide across hers. No substitute for feeling the disguised strength that was in every square inch of Brittany's velvet covered marble body. But at 3AM, it was what she needed. And when she moved to Cincinnati, it was what she had. And now that Brittany was gone, it was what she missed.

People say 'I love you' as a reflex. Santana had cursed the number of times it crashed out of her mouth in reply to some dumb boy. It was easy. But the times when 'I want you' lead to frantic fingers pinching and stroking and rubbing to the point of blurry blissful exhaustion, Santana hung on every gasp, every hitch of Brittany's breath. None of Santana's past partners would have ever accused her of being selfless in bed, but with Brittany, all Santana wanted was to hear her moan her name; utter naked truth in _those_ three syllables.

"Santana."

The tremble testified to its sincerity. It was the single greatest feeling in the Universe.

Santana was greedy to be assured by Brittany, to know that this was safe and sure and solid and never ever going to change. She needed that from Brittany so much, so often, that they'd whittled it down to the bare emotion of it:

"Mine?"

"Yours."

Santana taught Brittany to say those words in Spanish and Brittany taught Santana her best estimation of them in Dutch. And sometimes that was all Santana needed.

It was 3AM in New York City. A single tear ran down her cheek. And that's all Santana would allow herself. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and rolled back over and tried to sleep.


End file.
